I had forgotten just how good it felt to sing.
While in my sister Jane’s backyard last weekend, she pulled out her guitar and said, “You wanna sing a song?”
It took a little prodding by her friends, Dave, B.J. and Monika, but I acquiesced.
Long ago, Jane and I would sometimes sing together in a Skowhegan coffeehouse she attended for many years, until it closed to in-person attendance because of the coronavirus pandemic. Her friend, Dave, runs the coffeehouse and has had some small backyard music sessions the last few months.
Jane has a much better singing voice than I do, and she’s a great songwriter; thus, she sings often and likes to host music gatherings. I am remiss in not attending as many as I should, always seeming to have other obligations.
Last weekend, Phil and I dropped by and I was reminded of what I have been missing.
We got to singing songs like we did when we were teenagers and singers like Bob Dylan and James Taylor were popular.
While we were growing up, singing in our household was pretty much a daily occurrence. My mother was a great pianist and we’d gather around as she tapped out songs like “Nola,” “(Won’t You Come Home) Bill Bailey” and “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue.” We belted out those tunes until we were hoarse. My siblings played piano, guitar and other instruments and wrote songs on which we’d harmonize together. Christmas Eve was a rocking good time as we sang hymns and Christmas carols accompanied by Mom at the keys.
We sang in the church choir when we were kids. In summertime, we sat on the lawn with a transistor radio, listening to Petula Clark’s “Downtown,” and Bobby Vinton with “Roses are Red (My Love),” and “Mr. Lonely.” We spun LPs and 45s of all genres on the record player in the living room, sang in the car when we took trips and learned songs like “Old Dan Tucker” in elementary school. I loved singing in musicals during high school and beyond.
But like many things that tend to go by the wayside as we get older, singing hasn’t been a part of my everyday life the last few years. I’ll belt out a show tune here and there, prompting the cats to scatter, but that’s about it.
So when we visited Jane last weekend and she and I sang “Flyer,” a Nanci Griffith song we harmonized on many years ago, I realized it made me happy. I enjoyed the sounds coming out of our mouths.
We plucked old, once-familiar song titles from our past and sang, not caring if we stumbled over forgotten words and lines — “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere,” to name a couple. And “I Love How You Love Me,” which the Paris Sisters made famous. Remember that beautiful little song?
It’s amazing how the lyrics and melodies we listened to early in our lives, like in the late ’50s, early ’60s, come back more easily than those from later years. “Rag Doll” comes to mind.
Which makes me think about just how embedded in our psyches songs are. We saw a clip on “60 Minutes” the other night about Tony Bennett, now 95 and suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease, performing his final big concert with Lady Gaga. While he has lost and forgotten so much, when he walked onstage to great applause it was like awakening a sleeping giant, as he belted out the tunes he has sung so well for so many years.
The way I see it, if singing is the last thing to go as we enter old age, we should be pretty happy campers.
Amy Calder has been a Morning Sentinel reporter for 33 years. Her columns appear here Saturdays. She may be reached at acalder@centralmaine.com. For previous Reporting Aside columns, go to centralmaine.com.
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